The Indestructibles (3 page)

Chapter 5:

Full moon

Growing up, Titus Talbot was afraid of the dark, convinced that around every corner there was something — usually a hungry something — with long, sharp teeth, just waiting to get him.
His parents tried to convince him otherwise, but in the end, they were always strangely unconvincing, as if they, too, saw monsters in every alleyway, and that by lying to their son, they were simply delaying the inevitable.

      Titus, now a teenager, was no longer afraid of the dark. He didn't grow out of that fear, nor did he find that all his bogeymen were myths and fairy tales. Rather, not long after his sixteenth birthday, Titus turned into a werewolf.

      He hated people who complained about acne and body hair. They didn't sprout gray fur, grow long claws, and have their faces elongate uncomfortably into a lupine maw. Anyone who grumbled about their voices changing could simply get lost as far as Titus was concerned.

      He hoped, after the first time, that it would be like in the movies — that he'd be able to predict the changes, chain himself to a wall, lock himself in a basement, anything to keep this entity under wraps. But, it turned out the movies were wrong. Two years living on the run had taught him that.

      And this was why he could be found sprinting on all fours across a swath of woods on the border of Maine and Canada, tracking a buck by scent. He never quite knew what would set it off. If he got angry, hungry, frustrated . . . if he got lost. If he panicked, got scared, excited or startled. It only took a few accidental transformations before Titus decided his best course of action was to run like hell. He packed a bag and other things, figuring he'd be like that TV show from the '70s with the sad music and the lonely man with anger management issues.

      Somewhere in New Hampshire, he lost his bag. He wouldn't say that the guy who caused Titus to wolf out on him didn't deserve it, but, well, Titus started keeping away from cities and towns after that event. He had no desire to have a body count attached to his name.

      From a granite outcropping, Titus launched onto the fleeing buck; the creature's hot muscles spasmed when his claws sunk in and his teeth gripped its neck. He often felt like a spectator during these hunts, though he remembered them with more and more clarity each time. With no money and no home, hunting became his only way to eat.

      He'd always been a steak well-done kid growing up and was more than a little glad he only barely tasted what he ate as a werewolf. It was like watching someone else eat on television. Strange enough to turn his stomach, but it wasn't scratch and sniff. Not yet.

      What worried Titus was that he knew he could — if he wanted to — feel what the wolf felt. It was right there for the taking, if he'd only will himself to reach out and touch it.

      Being a spectator was less disturbing, though. And so he let his other half run free. It kept him fed, kept him warm, and his other half seemed far more capable of avoiding human beings than Titus was alone. It was better this way.

      Mid-dinner — Titus wished there was a way he could turn away from the corpse of the deer while the wolf ate, but he hadn't mastered that yet — he felt the wolf's body tense. Something was in the air, a scent, a sound, and the beast was suddenly on high alert. He pounced away from his meal, teeth bared, looking, watching.

      From the shadow-shrouded woods, a figure approached, a man with pale blue hair, red glasses, a long black coat. He waved.

      "Hello, Titus. I'm a friend."

      The wolf growled. Titus tried to speak. Nothing happened.    He couldn't tell if the wolf was growling because he had tried to speak, or if the wolf was, of its own accord, threatening the man.

      "I know you're in there, Titus. Why don't you come out and chat. I might be able to help."

      Come on, furball, Titus thought. Let me out. Relax. Please. I haven't talked to anyone in months.

      Instead, the wolf lunged. The man waved a hand; the wolf went sprawling. Titus actually felt it — a spark, like an electric shock. So did the wolf, who yipped and turned to run.

      And they were off. Normally this was Titus' favorite part, the running — the whip of passing trees, the blurred world, the strong assurance in every step the wolf took. But now, he simply viewed it as a loss, putting distance between himself and the only person in months who knew his name.

      And then, a girl with red-gold hair approached.

      Just a girl. Slim, wearing jeans and a wool coat over a bright techwick tee shirt. The wolf charged her. Titus yelled at him to stop. Screamed at him to stop. Then screamed at her to move. He knew the wolf killed people before, but never like this. Titus understood what the wolf could be like when he — when they — were cornered.

      The girl reached back and, with perfect timing, punched the wolf right between the eyes.

      Everything blurred and went topsy-turvy. Titus felt the cold air of the world, felt the ground rush up to meet him, felt the wolf's body — his body? — slam into the dirt and stone of the forest floor. Oxygen rushed out of his lungs, then back in again. He listened for the wolf's growl, and instead, heard his own ragged breathing.

      "I think I fixed him Doc," the girl said.

      Titus looked up. A thin trickle of blood ran down his forehead into his left eye.

      Doc materialized out of the shadows and smiled.

      "There you are," he said. "You okay?"

      "Everything hurts," Titus said, surprised at the sound of his own voice. "I'm sorry about that."

      The man shook his head.

      "No worries. Everybody has trouble controlling their powers at first. Your kind is especially troubled by it. But I can help you if you want."

      Titus started shaking. He was cold — he hadn't been cold in longer than he could remember. The wolf must've shed the last of his clothing. He looked at the man, then at the girl. His face grew very hot.

      "I — can we talk about this after? . . . Can I have some pants? Please?"

      Doc took off his own coat and tossed it to Titus. It was long enough to reach the boy's calves. He stood up sheepishly and wrapped himself in it. The girl had, politely, stared at the ground to her left when he stood up. Titus was strangely relieved to see she looked as embarrassed as he felt.

      Doc laughed. "Let's get you real clothes and some people food," he said. "Then we can discuss all the lies people told you about werewolves."

      "Lies?" Titus said.

      "Yeah, lies. Starting with who's in charge, you or the wolf," said Doc. "If you come with us, I can help you show that hairy bastard who's in charge."

      He stuck out his hand.

      Titus took it, shaking it like a grown up, man-to-man. He couldn't remember the last time someone talked to him like a human being, let alone like an adult. He couldn't help smiling.

      "Can I get a cheeseburger?" Titus said. "I'm dying for something well done."

Chapter 6:

Entropy

Entropy Emily's super power was her ability to make a smart-mouthed comment.
At least, that was what she always said her super power was, until the afternoon she started accidentally throwing cars on Broadway.

      It happened that fast, too, the throwing of cars. She was jaywalking — that's what Emily did, because she was young enough to think she was both immortal and morally entitled to cross the street wherever and whenever she wanted to. Of course, the rest of the universe disagreed on both counts, and a small silver sedan driven by a woman in her thirties checking her text messages almost plowed into Emily at forty-five miles an hour.

      Emily threw up her hands and thought, how did she not see me? My hair's nuclear blue and I'm wearing a neon tee shirt — oh god don't let that be my last thought on Earth. And then it happened.

      She felt an incredible pulse of something, somewhere between adrenaline and nausea, wash through her and out her fingertips then suddenly the silver sedan and its cell phone addicted driver were flying through the air with the greatest of ease. Although the driver didn't seem to agree that this was either great or easy.

      Emily waved her hands at the flying car as if to stop it, spouting words and phrases she would have normally avoided saying in front of her mother, and just as suddenly as it all started, the car stopped spinning and came to a stand-still in mid air. But then another car, its driver justifiably showing more concern for the airborne sedan than for the teenager flapping her arms in the middle of the road, nearly crashed into Emily as well. So Emily, being Emily, thought, well it worked last time, and flung her arms at the oncoming car.

      This produced a slightly different effect as the car crumpled onto itself, dug into the asphalt, and flipped onto the street.

      She remembered dropping the first car, which landed on yet another car — parked and unoccupied — and then she recalled having the wherewithal to run, which she did, because one of the cars exploded. Or something adjacent to one of the cars exploded, but whatever the cause, Emily was pretty sure they were going to blame her for this, so best start moving.

      Except she had nuclear blue hair and a neon green shirt on, and everywhere she went people kept pointing at her as the girl who threw those cars.

      The news helicopter showed up not long after that. As did the police cruisers. This was unfortunate, because Emily, displaying little knowledge or restraint in her newfound car-throwing ability, had begun using said power to aid in her escape, leaving a swath of destruction behind her that stretched over a mile and a half.

      If your only tool is a super-powered hammer, well, then every problem looks like a super-powered nail.

      Then, of course, her phone rang.

      "That better not be you I'm watching on the news," her mother said.

      "Of course not!" Emily said. Act casual, she thought.

      "Because not only did I just see someone who looks just like you throw a car at a police helicopter, that same someone also has nuclear blue hair, which my daughter had been expressly forbidden to do to her hair."

      "That's totes not me, mom!"

      "The girl throwing the car is also wearing a skirt that is so short I'd have told my own daughter to get rid of it immediately. In fact, I'm almost positive my daughter owned that skirt until she allegedly threw it away a few weeks ago."

      "Absolutely, positively not me, mom!"

      A police cruiser spotted Emily and, with almost unfathomable recklessness, moved toward her at ramming speed. She waved her hand again and the car barrel-rolled sideways until it hit a fire hydrant. Water sprayed everywhere.

      "The strangest thing is the girl with the blue hair on the TV is talking on her cell phone right this second, Emily."

      "I gotta go. Love you mom mwa!"

      Emily hung up. The phone began to ring again immediately, to the tune of the
Jaws
theme song — her mother's ring tone.

      Police closed in on multiple sides. Another cruiser sped toward her. She manipulated her hands again, sending the car spinning like a coin through the air.

      It came to a dead stop, though, when a flying girl with the red-blonde hair caught it.

      "Oh," said Emily.

      The girl with the red-blonde hair smiled at the officer in the car, who seemed slightly less terrified at being caught mid-air by a hundred and ten pound girl than he did the moment before, when he was simply in freefall. Emily thought that it was more than a bit ridiculous — she certainly didn't want to see what else a girl who could catch a flying car was capable of.

      But, she was denied the opportunity to avoid just that, because, at that moment, a bluish-white bolt of light slammed into her. Someone hooked her under the armpits and lifted her into the air. Suddenly she was moving fast enough that catching her breath became difficult.

      "Just trust me," a boy's voice said.

      Emily looked up, gasping for air. The boy looked down. "Crap. Hang on, we can slow down in a few seconds. We had to get you out of there."

      The flying boy — whom Emily decided looked like one of the dumbest boys she'd ever seen in her entire life, despite the fact that his eyes glowed vibrant white blue — soared upward and deposited them both on a rooftop. Emily glanced around. They landed at least one town away from where they started.

      "What the frig was that?" Emily asked.

      "Sorry. We needed to get you out of danger so Jane could talk to the press."

      "Talk to the press?"

      "Yeah," the boy said. "Look, if we left you there we have no idea what they would have done with you."

      "Maybe I wanted to be arrested," Emily said, although in fact, her heart wasn't into it. She'd never been a hardened criminal, really.

      "Sure," the boy said. "I can take you back if you want."

      "Maybe later."

      "Right. Anyway, Doc didn't want to have any of us talk to the press yet, but then you decided to start trashing New York, so we had to move the timeline up a bit. I'm Billy, by the way."

      "Of course you are," Emily said.

      "You going to tell me your name?"

      "Emily."

      "Welcome to the club," Billy said. The glow of his eyes died down.

      Emily noted that underneath, they were a fairly ordinary shade of blue.

      "What club is that?"

      "The freakshow. I have some bad news for you, kid. You're a superhuman."